


A Known Deviant

by intelligentgravity



Series: TAG DeviantAU [1]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Intervention, Multi, mentions of underage activity, respect the family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:49:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intelligentgravity/pseuds/intelligentgravity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TAG AU. Gordon won gold at the 2056 games, and then spun off the rails in a haze of partying and booze. Jeff has had enough. It's about time his family did something to put a stop to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Known Deviant

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by carryonstarkid‘s Sunset (on tumblr) which is related to PreludeInZ‘s Heavenward series but has become its own AU. And also cos I just like thinking about Gordon and his wild past and all the hijinks he gets up to, basically.

The elevator dings politely, and the doors slide open like silk onto the Tracy penthouse suite. Scott Tracy lifts his shades to rest them on his head as he steps out.  


The dim room is a mess. The only light is cast from a lava lamp that sits in the middle of the coffee table, casting a pink glow on the handful of sleepers sprawled on the furniture. One person is standing in the kitchen, a tall, blonde woman he recognises as the Russian diving silver medallist Gordon had been briefly attached to immediately following the Games. She turns to look at him as he enters, and he holds up a hand in greeting.

Well. He has to start somewhere. Scott strides to the windows and throws back the curtains. Midday sun streams in, flooding the room with bright light.

“Up and at ’em, everyone,” he says, his voice far too loud. “Time to go home.” People stir, wondering what’s going on. Scott’s not really interested in them. At a glance he can see that Gordon isn’t there, so he moves off to find him.

There are three people asleep on the bed in the master bedroom, all of them in various states of undress. Gordon lies curled on his stomach, his arms tucked under the pillow. Scott looks down at him. He looks innocent and open when he sleeps, his lips slightly parted, hair falling in his face. He hasn’t cut his hair or shaved in a while, and he looks scruffy and young.

“Hey, kiddo. Time to get up.” Scott shakes Gordon’s shoulder gently, then harder when he refuses to co-operate. It does have the effect of waking the man behind him, who lifts his cheek from where it was resting against Gordon’s back and blinks dozily at Scott.

“Who’re you?” he mumbles.

“I’m his brother. Party’s over.” Scott thinks he recognises the face. He is an actor who has made a big deal out of the fact that he was saving himself for marriage to his committed and also very Christian country-singer girlfriend. The promise ring on his finger catches the light, and Scott has to repress a derisive snort. Apparently saving yourself for Jesus doesn’t include having sex with other men. Or women, he notes, as the third body moves on the other side of the bed.

Gordon stirs a little, opening one eye a crack and squinting up. He lifts his head when he sees it’s Scott, then winces and covers his face with one hand. Scott doesn’t look at all sympathetic.

“Hope you enjoyed your birthday, two days ago,” he says. Gordon gives him a muffled grunt and tries to tug the covers up over his head, but his eldest brother snatches them from his shaking grip. “Not a chance. You’re getting up. Dad wants a word with you.”

“Dad can come here and say it, then.” Gordon’s voice comes from somewhere stuck in his throat, crackling and tremulous.

“He did. Yesterday. You tried to order room service from him.”

There’s a long pause. “Oh,” Gordon says at last, sounding a little surprised at his own nerve.

“Yes, _oh_. So instead you’ve got me, and you’re _getting up_.” The elevator pings behind him, and Scott straightens. “Ah. Here comes the cavalry.”

Virgil enters the suite, tucking his own sunglasses into his shirt. He brings with him a couple of takeaway trays of coffee, and starts handing them out to people as he nudges them up, herding them out the door. The Russian is nowhere to be seen. Behind Gordon, his bed-partners see the way things are and decide to go too. The actor places a hand on his arm, looks like he wants to say something, but Scott is giving him a hard stare and he’s not in a state to argue. Meekly he grabs his clothes and follows the woman out.

“Well,” says Virgil, passing the last cup of coffee to Scott and looking down at Gordon. “He’s looked better.”

“Everyone out?” Scott asks.

“Just about.” He sips his own cardboard cup of tea, then passes it to Scott and rolls up his sleeves. Gordon’s bleary eye flicks warily between his two brothers, and he starts to back away. He knows what’s coming and he knows he won’t like it.

“Come on, kid, time to dry out.” Virgil hefts Gordon up in a fireman’s carry before he can move far, carries him through to the bathroom, and deposits him into the shower. Gordon yowls as the cold water is turned on full force, and he glares miserably at the pair of them, shivering in his underpants.

“Do you want me to wash you as well?” Scott says, checking his watch. Gordon shakes his head as emphatically as he can without making himself fall over. “Clean yourself up, have a shave, get dressed. We’re due in Father’s office by two.” Gordon looks sullen, like he’s going to rebel, but when Virgil takes a step forward he holds up a hand to ward him off.

“ _Fine_ , I’m doing it,” he croaks, turning the heat up and kicking off his wet pants. “Party poopers.”

Virgil hurrumphs, heading out the door. “We know all about _your_ parties, and frankly, we wouldn’t have come even if you _had_ invited us.”

**

  


The L.A. offices for Tracy Industries are meant to look imposing. It means they’re worth more. Trailing after his brothers, Gordon pauses to look up at the windows. There’s a figure looking down. It’s too far away to see who it is, but he raises a hand anyway, just as Scott barks at him to hurry up.

Jeff’s office is on the 50th floor, and occupies half the floor space. The other half is workrooms, where his newest personnel acquisition, Brains, has been working on prototypes for the big Venture. Gordon always uses capitals when he thinks of his father’s projects, but this one is the biggest capital of all, in many senses of the word. The new engineer is standing at the reception desk as they enter and goggles at them as they pass, Scott walking ahead and Virgil walking behind, guiding Gordon like a prisoner to the gallows. He gives the man a little wave.

He’s a little surprised to see John is waiting in their father’s office too, standing by the floor-to-ceiling window and looking out across the city. He doesn’t even make the smallest of welcomes when he turns to look at them, appearing even more closed off than usual. Scott pushes Gordon firmly into the chair waiting in front of their father, then perches on the corner of the desk, arms folded. Virgil closes the door behind them. It has a feeling of finality to it. Gordon hunches his shoulders and glares around at them.

There’s a magazine open on the mahogany desktop, a splash of photos that Gordon doesn’t remember being taken. He squints at it, objectively recognising that it is himself on the pages. The young man in those photos is getting wasted with the brightest stars, hasn’t yet been fucked by the ‘it’ guy of the moment, and hasn’t quite managed to talk that same actor into a threesome with a model he’d met on a photoshoot—but he’s certainly on his way there, judging by the no less than five images of them kissing. “Tearaway Teen Tracy’s Birthday Bash”, indeed.

“We’re worried about you,” Scott begins. Behind him, John coughs and turns away again. Jeff folds his hands in front of him and frowns.

 _Judge, jury and executioner_. Gordon finds a little mirth in the tableau they present: Scott and John like tall bookends on either side of their father, who sits back in his leather executive chair. Virgil drifts somewhere behind him, but he can’t bring himself to turn to look. His whole head is still throbbing. The constant vague nausea makes him want to crawl back into bed at any cost. It was devious of Scott to pin him down like this when he can’t fight back.

Jeff Tracy has always been formidable to his competition, and tough but fair with his children. They know he doesn’t believe in pulling punches when it comes to praise or condemnation. “They’re saying you’re getting into drugs,” he says without preamble, reaching out to straighten the magazine so it lines up with the edge of the table like a razor’s edge. Gordon looks back at the page. So it does. One of the girls he’s been partying with is a singer who is notoriously in and out of rehab, and currently relapsing. A lot. She features in three of the images on the page, arms around his waist.

“I didn’t. I don’t touch that. I’ll take a test right now and prove it, I’ll piss in any cup you want,” he says belligerently, coming in on the defensive. At least, he doesn’t _remember_ doing anything like that.

“It doesn’t matter that you didn’t, although I’m glad to hear it,” Jeff replies. “It matters that they think you did.”

“But I _didn’t_ ,” Gordon repeats. Behind him, Virgil lets out a soft sigh.

“Are you aware of the concept of reputation?” John says archly.

Gordon glares at him. “Of course I’m fucking—of course I’m aware.” He chokes back the curse word at his father’s raised brow.

“Then stop acting stupid. This is important.”

“I’m _not_ acting-”

“That’s enough.” Jeff holds up a hand, his heavy brows drawn together. “Gordon, do you know what they’re saying about you, and why that’s important? They’re saying that winning gold sent you off the rails. They’re saying you’re breaking up relationships and having orgies and bondage parties and Lord knows what else. They’re _saying_ that you’re a deviant and a drunk and that I have no control over you, which means that I might be losing control of my operations, which means shareholders and clients get nervous, which means stock drops and profits are lost, my work doesn’t get done and my workers don’t get paid. I don’t care what you do on your own time, that’s your business, but when it affects my business, then we have a problem. Do you understand me?”

“Surely it’s not that bad,” Gordon scoffs. Scott and John both stare him down, looming over him, making him insignificant in the combined face of them. Virgil moves around to the side and leans against a bookcase, hunching his shoulders and shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, and Gordon glances at him, searching his face, seeking an _ally_. His closest brother refuses to look at him, deliberately not seeing the cry for help.

If the other three notice him searching for an out, they don’t say anything. Jeff nods to his eldest, prompting him to speak.

“We’re _worried_ ,” Scott repeats, his expression a twin of his father’s. “I keep hearing people talk about you, and not good things. I don’t like hearing people gossip about my family. It worries me to hear about whichever young starlet you’ve allegedly hooked up with. You’re too new to it, and it won’t last. They’re just using you. And this sort of thing stays with you for a long time. It’ll get repeated years from now.”

Gordon shakes his head, denying the implications. Scott frowns at him fiercely, like that will impress the point further.

From the window, John snorts and rolls his eyes. “Celebrity has gone to his head,” he snarks to Scott, looking over Gordon with that expression that he hates. It’s a sneering, superior look, and it never fails to get under his skin. John’s sour disdain makes him feel stubborn and resentful.

“What is this, an intervention or something?” he says bitterly, folding his arms. Silence follows. “Oh my god, this is a fu—a damn _intervention_. What the _hell?_ It’s not that bad! I’m not doing _drugs_ , Dad. Virgil. I’m _not_.” He again tries to invite engagement from Virgil, but John intercepts him, circling the desk to lean over him. Gordon recoils, screwing up his face.

“Oh no? Not that bad?” John is not done with his brother by a long shot. “Tell that to Alan. Reporters are harassing him outside his _school_. They wait there and then _follow him_ _home_ , Gordon. It makes him feel unsafe. And it’s _you_ they want to know about. And that’s not even addressing the ones who show up at university, bothering Virgil and me. We can deal with them, but Alan? He _can’t,_ and he shouldn’t have to.” John stabs his finger against the armrest of the chair.

“What? He didn’t mention that when I spoke to him last…” Shit, when _had_ he last spoken to his youngest brother? Gordon looks pained, trying to remember.

John’s lip curls and he backs up a few steps. “Of course he didn’t tell you. Why would he tell _you_? He thinks he can deal with it.” His expression suggests that Alan is being far too forgiving, so he is making up for it twice over.

Gordon shifts uncomfortably, dropping his gaze. “I didn’t know that. Nobody tells me things.”

Virgil shakes his head, watching Scott out of the corner of his eye for the directive to speak. When he gets it, he sighs and says, “We just don’t want you to get in over your head, Gords.” He runs his fingers through his hair and looks away again, and Gordon at last feels a twinge of guilt. He looks back down at his hands. They all just care about him, in the end. John is angry because Alan is threatened, but he’s just as worried as the rest, somewhere deep down. Deep, _deep_ down, judging by that scowl.

“I understand that you needed to blow off some steam after training for so long, but enough is enough. That was months ago now. You have three choices,” Jeff intones, drawing his attention back. He’s done with discussion, and he’s doling out decisions from on high. Gordon waits for the hammer to fall. “You’re enlisting in the military like Scott, or you’re going to college on an accelerated learning program like John and Virgil.”

A restrictive boot-camp or an education that won’t give him time for a social life. “And what’s the third option?” Gordon’s voice is small, and he thinks he knows, but he has to ask anyway.

Jeff pauses, aware that he has all of them hanging on what he’s about to say.

“You can keep going the way you are, but I’m cutting you loose. No more penthouse suites, no more allowance, no involvement in my personal projects or in Tracy Industries as a whole. I give you a lump sum severance to do with as you please, and you are your own man.”

 _No more family_. It’s that that finally chokes him: the fear of being left on his own. He blinks quickly, the corner of his mouth quirking downward. Virgil shifts his weight forward as if to go to him, but Scott shoots him a look, pinning him in place. Jeff stays unmoved, his impassive gaze never leaving his son. Gordon can’t fight him. He has no weapons against his father like this.

“Yes, Father,” he says, his voice coming out crushed and flat. He feels weak and sick and _guilty_ and he wants to hide away from the horrible sympathetic look Virgil is giving him. Typical, Virgil wouldn’t look at him before, but he does now and Gordon doesn’t want him to. He wishes Virgil shared John’s anger.

“Yes, what?” Jeff asks.

“Yes, I will take one of the first two,” he replies, swallowing hard. “I’ll have to think about it though, sir, if I can.” There’s a sigh of relief from Scott and Virgil, and an almost imperceptible easing of tension from Jeff’s shoulders as he nods. Only John stays aloof, arms folded.

“That’s my boy. Now. I believe you have left a certain penthouse in disarray, so I expect it spotless when I come by this evening,” Jeff says, opening up his desk holoscreen. Gordon screws his nose up and starts to object, but the words catch in his throat at the withering look his father throws him. “You are all dismissed. I will talk to you later.” And that’s that. Enough time has been wasted on this.

Gordon is gone as soon as he is able, walking almost to the reception before stopping and exhaling heavily, shoulders slumping. The three elder brothers follow him, coming to a standstill as he does. He turns and looks up at them, troubled.

“Is… is Alan really being followed?” he asks. John softens the slightest bit and nods. “I didn’t know… I didn’t even think… I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologise to me,” John replies stiffly. “Apologise to Alan.”

“I will.” Gordon’s voice is sincere. He picks at the cuff of his sweatshirt awkwardly. John purses his lips and looks away, exasperated but no longer angry.

“Gordon, did you even think about what would happen?” Scott asks. “To Dad’s reputation, to all of our reputations? For the company? For the future? You’re underage to drink, and only just legal as of two days ago for everything else. That actor, for instance, the one in your bed, he has a certain reputation too, and a girlfriend. Didn’t you think about what would happen if you slept with him?”

“No. He came on to me first. I just thought… I thought he liked me. That’s all.” And he’d been very drunk already, as if that made it better.

Virgil lets out a sigh and takes two steps, wrapping his arms around Gordon’s shoulders and pulling him in for a hug. Gordon presses his face into his brother’s shoulder, his arms coming up to grip the back of his jacket. “We love you, little brother. We don’t want to see you hurt.”

Gordon nods, his mouth set in a firm line to prevent any emotions escaping.

Behind them, John tuts and rolls his eyes. “He’s always so soft on him,” he mutters crossly to Scott.

“Ah leave it,” Scott says, turning away with a shrug. “He made it this far, and we weren’t sure he would.”

Gordon’s not sure whom they’re talking about. “It wasn’t fair of you to do this when I was hungover,” he retorts, pulling away from Virgil.

“Believe it or not, but it’s been pretty hard to pin you down lately,” Virgil says with a shrug, steering him out of the room. Scott and John follow them out.

Gordon’s phone rings as they step into the elevator, so he can’t prevent his brothers from looking over his shoulder and seeing who is calling him. He hesitates for a moment. Behind him, his brothers glance at each other.

“I should probably not continue to see him, huh,” he says, rejecting the call.

Virgil laughs a little and pats him on the shoulder. “Sorry, Gords. It’s not worth the drama, I don’t think.”

Gordon lets out a slightly regretful sigh, then looks thoughtful and glances up at his brother. “Did you _want_ to come to my party?”

Virgil shrugs and shakes his head. “No, not really, but it would have been nice to be _asked_.”

“Not many parties in my future anyway.” Gordon looks a little glum. “Did I really ask Dad for room service? Was he pissed?”

Three low whistles are the answer to that question.

Scott laughs. “Just don’t mention bacon, cupcakes and tequila to him any time soon. He didn’t find it that funny.” 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Harvard Hypocrite](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5100599) by [carryonstarkid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryonstarkid/pseuds/carryonstarkid), [Heavenward (PreludeInZ)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/Heavenward)




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